


If There Is A Fall

by SatiricalDraperies



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: AU? Canon Compliant? You Decide, Betrayal, Comforter caused the Hurt, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More Hurt Than Comfort, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatiricalDraperies/pseuds/SatiricalDraperies
Summary: “No one else has studied this as closely as I have. So none of them have caught the flaw. Let me help you, Galen. Together, we can…”“Together we can what?"





	If There Is A Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



> I've actually never written fic for Star Wars before (despite starting and not finishing only a hundred AUs! lol) and especially not from the point of view of someone as morally messed up as Krennic. It was a super fun challenge to find his voice and excuse some of the absolutely awful things he's done to Galen, both in this fic and in movie canon. Also, I just want to mention that I know nothing of the EU except for what I read briefly in their wookieepedia articles, so any continuity errors are entirely due to that.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“What is this?” Galen barely moves from where he’s crumpled over his holodesk. When he doesn’t answer, Orson repeats his question.

“Doctor Erso. Do you mean to tell me that _this_ is your final plan for the new battle station?”

Galen doesn’t respond. He never does, not when they’re alone like this. He doesn’t have to. There are no rules or regulations, and Orson has no power without them. He can’t make Galen talk to him off the clock any more than he can make time flow backwards. For all of the Empire’s technical advancements, no one can make time flow backwards.

Orson continues anyways, in the hopes that Galen will come out of his hibernation and listen, really _listen_ , to what he’s saying.

“Doctor Erso,” he starts, then changes tactics. “Galen. Let’s talk about this.”

“What’s there to talk about?” It’s not much, but at least he’s listening and not too hostile. Yet.

“Your plan for the new battle station,” he says. “I just reviewed it.”

“In the middle of the night? What, were you waiting up for me?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was?” Orson walks into the room completely, closing the door behind him with a swipe of his hand. “It looks good, Galen. It looks really good.”

“ _Good_? Nothing I’ve designed has ever just been _good_. And definitely not in your eyes, Orson. Don’t lie to me. You think it’s brilliant.”

“I do.” Orson can’t lie, especially not when Galen’s finally using his name again. 

“You think it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever seen.” By the sound of his voice, Galen doesn’t agree with this assessment.

“I do.” Galen could say anything and Orson would agree. He almost laughs. Galen probably thinks himself powerless here, but if he only knew how much sway he held over the mighty and powerful Orson Krennic. It’s an ironic thought. Galen never wanted power, and now that he has more of it than any man could ever wish for, he doesn’t even realize it.

“You think you should’ve brought me here earlier, so that I could create even more weapons of mass destruction. I am an _scientist_ , Orson. Not a soldier. Not a general. An _scientist_.” Galen’s still talking, holding him in his thrall. Orson can’t help but be enticed by his voice, even as it accuses him with a brutal directness.

“And a damn good one at that,” he says softly, hoping for some seed of redemption to plant itself. Clearly Galen doesn’t take it as the olive branch that it is, since he finally lifts his head and glares at Orson, staring him straight in the eyes. Orson notices with some pity that his eyes are red and weighty. He hasn’t seen them this way since their time at university, where Galen didn’t sleep for a week working on his thesis. At least then there was an end in sight. At least then Galen loved his work, even as it consumed his life.

“What are you going to do Orson? Kill me? Like you killed Lyra? Like you plan to kill Jyn, if you haven’t already?” He spits, weakly. “Go ahead. I have nothing to live for. Not after you took it all from me.” 

“A defeated man does not work himself to exhaustion,” Orson replies, walking around the desk. He sits on the edge, carefully avoiding Galen’s blueprints. He rests a hand on Galen’s shoulder, massaging it a bit when he tenses up underneath him. Galen doesn’t pull away though, and Orson takes it as a good sign before continuing. “And I don’t think I took _everything_ you care for.”

Galen doesn’t turn his head. Orson doesn’t expect him to.

“So I still have my drawings, my old desk. You really expect me to be content with _this_? Creation doesn’t matter when it’s not for a purpose. You should know that better than anyone, Orson. They’ve put you to work here, commanding people like it’s your second nature, but if you really cared, there’d be no Resistance left. If you cared, you’d have nothing but perfection. This is not perfection that you have built for yourself here. I wonder, does Tarkin know how much more you could be doing for him? If only you cared.”

He ignores the push to conflict, opting to change the subject. Keep him on the offensive. Don’t show any signs of weakness. “The Empire doesn’t need you, Galen.” 

Either Galen doesn’t hear the unspoken _but I do_ or he chooses to ignore it. “I’m the best kyber scientist in the galaxy. I thought the Empire only worked with the best.” There’s a challenge hidden behind the words. Is _Orson_ the best? He thinks about it. No. He’s not the best, but he’s made himself invaluable nonetheless. So how does his lofty status reconcile with the Empire’s lust for perfection?

It doesn’t, but Orson can’t let Galen see how shaky he’s become. This is just the latest in a string of events that have left Orson questioning everything he thought he knew about the galaxy and his place in it. _Think, Krennic. How are you going to talk your way out of this one?_ He can’t lie. Galen knows him too well for that. Not for the first time since they split paths, Orson regrets letting Galen learn him so well. 

He regrets the consequence, but he could never regret Galen.

“They work with the best _available_. I could have made you unavailable.” Not even Orson himself knows if that was meant as a threat. Now what does _that_ say about their messed up situation?

“I _was_ unavailable.” He’s making excuses.

“No. You weren’t.”

Galen sighs. “What are you trying to say?”

Orson laughs. “I see you still hate banter.”

“And I see that you still try to mask actual conversation with clever little phrases. Just spit it out, Orson, and stop lying. It doesn’t become you.”

“I know.” He pauses, ostensibly to gather his thoughts. It’s been years since he’s rehearsed this particular speech, and he’s had to change it quite a bit since their schooling days, but he still knows the heart of what he wants to say. 

“I know, but I don’t think you do. You are… the most intelligent person I have ever had the honor of knowing, Galen.”

Galen scoffs. “High praise coming from the man who reports directly to the Grand Moff himself. You  
know, I could tell him you said that.”

“I know. But you won’t.”

“That’s an awful lot of trust to be placing in a man who hates you,” Galen quirks an eyebrow, his first real sign of life thus far.

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t hate me,” Orson’s taking a risk, making this statement, but it’s worth the chance. Galen’s always worth the chance.

“Don’t I?” but Galen doesn’t sound as sure of himself as he would have if it had been earlier in the night. “You killed Lyra.”

“The Empire killed Lyra.”

“You are the Empire.” It’s a cold detachment, not filled with any of the fire of fury. Is the lack of passion in his voice proof that he doesn’t believe his own words? Or is he so convinced of Orson’s loyalties that he doesn’t bother to question them anymore?

“If I were the Empire, you’d already be dead.” 

“If no one’s around to mourn for me, am I really dead?” Galen laughs bitterly. It’s a riddle they briefly considered in university, before coming to the inevitable conclusion. They were so naive back then, thinking that nothing could tear them apart, that they’d always be there for each other. 

“I’d mourn.” Orson gives the same answer he’s been giving since they first proposed the question. To him, there is no other answer. Orson will always mourn Galen, even if he’s the one pulling the trigger.

“You’d mourn my mind, my potential,” but somehow he doesn’t sound like he believes it. Does he? Or is Orson’s mind playing tricks on him yet again, making him hear what he wants to hear? It’s so hard to tell what is real anymore. He’s imagined this conversation so many times, playing it out in so many different ways, but no matter how he spins it, it always has the same ending. Him and Galen, _together_ , how they’re supposed to be.

“I’d mourn,” he says again. “I’d mourn because right now, I’m calling in a lot of favors to keep you alive. If it were anyone else in my position, you’d be dead right now.” It’s a diversion tactic Orson learned when he was just starting to rise through the ranks of command. Remember: you are above every single person in this room. You are granting the favors and you are suffering the consequences, so they must respect you. Everything good flows from you, and everything bad will be fixed by you.

“If it were anyone else in your position, I’d still be on Lah’mu.”

“Perhaps,” Orson concedes. “But you’re here now, and you’re _supposed_ to be working for the Empire.”

“I _am_ working for the Empire.”

“No, you’re not,” Orson’s voice is clipped and harsh. “You are actively working against the Empire, and I am the _only_ one standing in between you and being thrown out an airlock, or tortured by stormtroopers, or maybe Darth Vader himself would see to your execution…”

“Stop,” Galen says quietly. “I see your point. So tell me. How, exactly, am I betraying the Empire?”

Orson stands up and spreads the plans for the new battle station over the already covered desk. “Right here,” he says, pointing at a tiny duct on the massive blueprint. “An enemy fighter would only have to get one shot through here to blow up the entire thing.”

Galen laughs, his panic barely showing. “That’s ridiculous, Orson. This battle station can destroy entire planets, and you’re telling me that _one fighter_ could eliminate it? You’re crazy.”

“I am, but not for the reasons you think,” he bends over, his face close to Galen’s. “No one else has studied this as closely as I have. So none of them have caught the flaw. Let me help you, Galen. Together, we can…”

“Together we can what? You’re right, Orson. I’ve betrayed the Empire. I should be dead now. Why am I not dead right now? Why haven’t you killed me?” 

Galen didn’t look defeated before, but he does now. His show of defiance is the quickest route to this inevitable outcome of failure. Orson looks into his wrinkled face and sees the face of a man consigned to his fate who has lost all hope.

He looks so _old_. Does Orson look that old? The years have not been kind to either one of them.

“I told you. I’m telling you. I want to help you. Let me take the credit for it. I’ll present it to Tarkin and you’ll be dismissed to retire wherever you want. I’ll take the fall. You can escape, Galen. Go to some other nowhere planet and start another farm,” he laughs like he’s crazy, and maybe he is, the way he’s talking right now. This is treason he’s planning, treason with Galen Erso, of all people. He’s _definitely_ crazy. “Hell, maybe I’ll come join you. Present the Empire’s crowning achievement and then muck off to the middle of nowhere. By the time they realize we’ve duped them all, we’ll be completely off the map.”

He leans down and grabs Galen’s face, cups his hollow cheeks in his bony hands. “We can do it, Galen. You just have to trust me.” He searches Galen’s eyes. They’ve known each other for long enough that he can read everything in them and, for the first time in a while, Orson begins to believe that he has the potential to create a better life for himself and the man he used to love. Still loves, in some twisted way. Even if he doesn’t quite understand the feeling, can’t logically work out what it must be that he feels for Galen Erso, he thinks it might be love. And why not? It might very well be love. “The Empire isn’t all it was made out to be. There’s no point in career advancement if it doesn’t mean anything, if you can’t use your position to make any meaningful change.” That’s a good line. It’s taken straight from Galen’s idealistic rants, before the world beat him down. “I am trapped here, Galen, as much as you are.”

He’s ready to continue, to convince Galen that he feels something, that he wants something, anything at all, but Galen speaks at last.

“Orson,” Galen says, quieting him. He reaches a hand up to rest it over Orson’s. He strokes it with his thumb, once, twice. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Orson thinks he may have won, with that statement. It sounds like victory. It _feels_ like victory. Has Galen changed? He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Galen’s. For a moment, he can pretend that they are boys again, finding their place in the universe. Finding their place with each other. 

“It cannot be your fault,” Galen whispers. When he feels Orson’s breath hitch he continues speaking, pulling his face away from Orson’s and looking down at their clasped hands. “The new station. If there is a fall, it will be mine alone. You only saw me and Lyra once we had figured out how to build ourselves an existence. The first years of being on the run were hard. You’ve… I may hate the Empire, but I can’t deny that you have a comfortable life here. I can’t let you throw all of that away, especially not for me. I’ll change the plans, fix the hole. The Empire will be happy. _You’ll_ be happy. If not happy, you’ll at least be safe.” It’s more defeatist talk that Orson has no pity for. He thought they had gotten past that.

“Don’t change anything,” he says, a bit too quickly. “I only saw it because, well, I did spend almost a month examining the plans. Once I give the go-ahead, no one else will look closely enough to notice it.”

“A month? Didn’t you have other duties?” Galen is skeptical, and rightfully so.

“Nothing as important,” he shrugs, standing up and taking a solitary step away from Galen.

“Lie,” he says, standing up and pointing a finger at Orson, his face suddenly hardened. Another challenge, then. What will it take for Galen to believe him? Does he really expect Orson to tear down all of his walls right here, right now, in this room tonight? Fine. If Galen wants the truth, he’ll get the truth. 

But the truth is a slippery thing, and Orson has closed his fist too tightly. Maybe he isn’t holding on to the whole truth, but at least he’s holding on to _his_ truth. He doubts it will be enough for Galen, though. _His_ truth has never been enough for Galen.

“This was all I had of you!” he yells. “Of course I pored over it until my eyes hurt and then some! I needed proof that you were still… you. That maybe, someday, somehow, we could go back to the way it used to be between us. That you still…” he trails off, not wanting to say it.

“That I still loved you,” Galen finishes the sentence. He doesn’t give any indication whether he does or not, but doesn’t that say something, too?

Orson doesn’t trust himself to speak. He holds himself still, tensing all of his muscles for fear that he’ll do something in this moment that his rational daytime brain would never allow. He’s never been able to control himself very well around Galen, and Galen knows this. 

So really, it’s Galen’s fault when Orson finally gives in and steps forward, pulling Galen close until he can feel his heartbeat even through his starched uniform. He looks across the space between them, waiting. Galen nods, small and hesitant. The sober part of Orson questions whether it happened at all, but the rest of him doesn’t care, consequences be damned, as he kisses Galen.

It’s been years, but he tastes the same. 

The loneliness tastes the same when Galen pulls away, too. Orson shuts his eyes, not wanting to face rejection again. 

“I can’t do this, Orson,” he whispers. “We’ve been through this time after time. It never works out, you and me. I can’t…” he trails off, looking down at the place where his arm has somehow snaked itself around Orson’s body. “I shouldn’t love you.”

“But you do,” Orson says, more to convince himself than anything. He leans in for another kiss, but Galen pulls back.

“I don’t know,” Galen says, untangling himself. “I have no idea anymore. After Lyra and Jyn,” he cuts himself off and walks away towards the door, but he doesn’t open it. “I should really get some sleep. After all, we can’t have the Empire’s premier scientist working himself to exhaustion.” He turns around and gives a weak smile.

“You haven’t left this room since they brought you here,” Orson calls out, wisely ignoring the fact that _he_ was the one who suggesting bringing Galen on. “Do you even know where your quarters are?”

“I’m sure I can find them.”

Orson scoffs. “Do you have any idea how _confusing_ this place is to navigate? We should’ve gotten you sooner, so that you could have designed it to make any amount of sense.” _Shit_. He used _we_. Nothing to do about that, now, so he may as well keep talking and hope that Galen didn’t notice. “Come with me. You can share my rooms. It’ll be just like university, but with nicer amenities. The shower actually works, for one.” 

Galen doesn’t laugh at his weak excuse of a joke, so Orson makes himself walk over to join him at the door. He holds out his hand. Galen doesn’t take it, just looks at it with a hint of _something_ in his eyes. But it’s enough, it’s just enough. Orson knows that Galen will never sacrifice his pride. After all, he’s the exact same way.

“If you want to join me, your presence would be welcomed,” he says, slipping back into the formal speech patterns. “Third door on the left. Don’t bother knocking. The guards outside will let you in.”

And with that he exits Galen’s room. He doesn’t look behind him as he walks down the sloping corridor, but when he reaches the stormtroopers outside his quarters he tells them to expect a guest. “He may arrive at any hour tonight. He is to be let in without question.”

“His name, sir?”

“Galen Erso.” Orson makes to move into his rooms, but one of the guards speaks up.

“The prisoner?” The stormtrooper sounds shocked, but Orson’s accepted by now that there’s not much brains under those helmets. He lets it slide, though. He’s feeling generous tonight.

Even still, he doesn’t need to provide an answer. After all, they work for him. If anything, they owe him answers for why they’re questioning his orders, but he is feeling _very_ generous tonight after his victory.

“Doctor Erso is…” he pauses, searching for the right word to describe their relationship. “A friend.” 

He enters the room, closing the door behind him, and prepares two drinks. Looking out at the expanse of space, Orson smiles. He knows that Galen will come to him tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. And when Galen doesn’t accept his offer, when he is eventually forced to pull that trigger? He _will_ mourn.

Oh, how he will mourn.


End file.
